


After the War

by BlackRavenDreams



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crying, Depressed Draco Malfoy, Depression, Gen, I Made Myself Cry, One Shot, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Sad, Scars, Suicidal Thoughts, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27256198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackRavenDreams/pseuds/BlackRavenDreams
Summary: Draco Malfoy moves into a flat in Diagon Alley. It's a temporary arrangement, he knows, but it's enough. It has to be enough."He knew what he must look like, what the war had turned him into: a teen who was deathly pale — even paler than the marble tiles below his feet — and was far too thin, with sunken cheeks and bone-thin arms, making it seem as if guilt and grief had eaten at him from the inside. His lips were chapped and raw from being bitten so much. His white-blond hair, once so neat and well-combed, was a mess upon his forehead. A closer view would reveal dark circles under his dead eyes and an unhealthy greyish tinge in his skin. His robes were all fairly wrinkled and had sleeves that were a bit too long, which helped ensure that his Mark and scars would be hidden. He was certain that his appearance would have shocked people who had once known the self-confident, intelligent Slytherin prince and Malfoy heir. It was a façade that he had carefully maintained throughout his years at Hogwarts, even when his world was falling apart after he had joined Voldemort's ranks, but now he no longer cared enough to keep it up."
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	After the War

**Author's Note:**

> This fic glances on some pretty sensitive topics, such as depression and self-harm. If you do not feel comfortable reading something dealing with said topics, please do not read any further. Not that I don't think you should read this, of course, but I don't want anyone to be caught unawares.
> 
> If you suffer from depression or PTSD, please reach out for help. There are many ways you can do so: you can talk to your counselor (if you are a student), get a therapist, or reach out to one of the many hotlines out there, some of which are listed below:
> 
> National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:1-800-273-8255 (TALK)  
> The Samaritans: (877) 870-4673 (HOPE)  
> Trevor Project Lifeline – Hotline for LGBT youth: 866-488-7386  
> Child Help USA National Hotline – For youth who are suffering child abuse: 1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453)  
> Boys Town National Hotline – Serving all at-risk teens and children: 800-448-3000  
> National Teen Dating Violence Hotline – Concerns about dating relationships: 1-866-331-9474 or text “loveis” to 22522

* * *

_"Oh, I hope some day I'll make it out of here_  
_Even if it takes all night or a hundred years_  
_Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near_  
_Wanna feel alive, outside I can't fight my fear_

_Isn't it lovely, all alone?_  
_Heart made of glass, my mind of stone_  
_Tear me to pieces, skin to bone_  
_Hello, welcome home"_

_Billie Eilish, Khalid "Lovely"_

* * *

_"It is exceptionally lonely, being Draco Malfoy."_

After the war and the following trial, Draco Malfoy rented a flat in Diagon Alley. It should have been simple, really. He was of age and had more money in his Gringotts vault than most people had hairs on their head. But all this was ignoring how people viewed former Death Eaters, especially the Malfoys. A few nasty looks had been given, and one landowner had even flat out refused to even see him, but that was only to be expected with his background.

It was all worth it, though. He knew that he would have to return to Malfoy Manor eventually, but he just could not handle living there for the time being. It hardly felt like a home anymore. Long gone was the welcoming and loving atmosphere along with the warmth and comfort he once felt there. He could not sit at the dining table or stand in the living room without remembering the screams and paled faces of the people — some familiar to him from his years at Hogwarts — whom Voldemort and the Death Eaters had tortured and killed. The basement scared him, reminding him of the many that were imprisoned there; the very thought of going down there made him hyperventilate and his skin turn clammy. After everything, all he could think of in the manor was death. Sometimes he wished that he had been sent to Azkaban. It would have been better than living in the manor.

His parents initially insisted that he stayed with them, but they finally relented when they found him lying unconscious after he had tried to kill himself. He remembered waking up in St Mungo's later that day, bleary-eyed and feeling infinitely tired, to hushed whispers and worried glances. After a week of laying in a hospital bed and having healers tend to him and vainly cajole him into finding a therapist (he hated the idea, though he would have liked to see the therapist willing to help him and handle his thoughts), he was finally allowed to leave. And so he left, taking the first flat he found with a willing landowner.

The flat he was now staying in was small, cozy, and rather charming, according to his over-eager landowner. If it was, he did not know. He had buried himself deeply in his own mind the past few years that his surroundings always appeared to be somewhat muted, as if he was drowning. To him, it did not matter whether the flat was cozy or not. No, what mattered was that the flat he was staying in was different than what he was used to. It suited his needs because it was as far from the cold, dark, and respectable manor as it could get. Here, it was easy to separate himself from the world. Here, it was easy to be broken without being judged. Here, it was easy to attempt to live. Was it so wrong to try to escape?

The bedroom was by far the room he used the most, and he came to enjoy the comfort of his bed. At night, he would sit in bed, wrapped in a blanket, and write. He filled journal after journal with poetry and short stories. He was sure what a person reading his writing would think: _He is only eighteen years old, yet he already detests life and thinks that he has seen enough. If you give him a glass filled halfway, he would probably say that it is half-empty._ When it was past two in the morning or when he was not in the mood to write, he would lie down. Deep in thought, he would stare at the glow-in-the dark merpeople and aquatic creatures moving around on the ceiling, which he had charmed to resemble the bottom of a lake. It reminded him of the Slytherin common room and of his first few years at Hogwarts, a place he had once actually found so enchanting and magical. Now, memories of the battle at Hogwarts and his sixth year blighted the feeling, but the common room still remained close in his heart. He would eventually fall asleep after a several hours, but undoubtedly woke up again when the sun rose or because of a nightmare. He knew he probably should get more sleep and wanted to feel better, but he just could not.

Some days, when he woke up, he would just stay in bed, feeling almost physically ill and unable to muster enough energy to do anything. His right hand would unconsciously and roughly move up and down his scar-slashed Dark Mark, leaving the skin feeling raw and chafed. These days were when he felt the worst, and most of the time this happened he would often end up hurting himself so that he was not so empty and numb. Everything became more real when he brought a silver blade to his too-pale skin. He could feel something for once, even if what he felt was the stinging from a bleeding wound.

On other days, he would wake up and take a long shower, relishing the feel of hot water on his aching body. He avoided glancing at the mirror when he was in the bathroom as he got ready for the morning. He knew what he must look like, what the war had turned him into: a teen who was deathly pale — even paler than the marble tiles below his feet — and was far too thin, with sunken cheeks and bone-thin arms, making it seem as if guilt and grief had eaten at him from the inside. His lips were chapped and raw from being bitten so much. His white-blond hair, once so neat and well-combed, was a mess upon his forehead. A closer view would reveal dark circles under his dead eyes and an unhealthy greyish tinge in his skin. His robes were all fairly wrinkled and had sleeves that were a bit too long, which helped ensure that his Mark and scars would be hidden. He was certain that his appearance would have shocked people who had once known the self-confident, intelligent Slytherin prince and Malfoy heir. It was a façade that he had carefully maintained throughout his years at Hogwarts, even when his world was falling apart after he had joined Voldemort's ranks, but now he no longer cared enough to keep it up.

After showering, he would then make himself a cup of strong black coffee. Sitting in the living room, he would sip his warm drink in silence and struggle to not think because when he did, his mind would flood with memories from the past. If he felt like it, he would finish his coffee, get a book from his bookshelf, and read. Otherwise he would neglect his coffee and let it grow cold, later pouring it down the sink and heading to the bedroom. It was like that sometimes. He would feel fine, but then everything would come crashing down on him as if someone had hit him in the head with a brick.

Apart from writing to his mother and going to the apothecary and the wizarding grocery, he did not make contact with the outside world. Why would he bother with others, anyway? Witches and wizards who knew of his past never saw him for who he was, only what he was. When he went out, people would stare at him as if he was a piece of gum on their shoe, and many would turn to whisper to their friend nearby. A few who were not aware of his identity would sometimes try to strike a conversation with him, despite his strange appearance. He tried his best to be pleasant and friendly, which mainly was an exercise in futility. He forced a smile and gave fake, hollow chuckles when they made a particularly good joke or humorous comment. They would slowly regret talking to him and would go off to shop on their own. Not that he blamed them. He could imagine what he seemed like: a young wizard who looked half-dead and had a demeanor to match. A man of glass. He was afraid that if they studied him too closely, they would see where he half-heartedly attempted to glue himself back together. They would see how he was always on the verge of tears. They would see how his hands would twitch like mad.

Back home, he would spend all morning and afternoon reading. He often forgot about lunch and dinner, and did not eat much when he did remember to eat, anyway. His appetite had long since disappeared along with the will to feed himself.

Days, weeks, and months passed in this monotone, overcast way. As May approached, he found it harder to will himself to do anything. More days passed when he could not get himself out of bed. More meals were forgotten. More cuts marred his Dark Mark.

The night before the second of May, the anniversary of the great battle at Hogwarts, he sat in bed. His quill and parchment floating in front of him, he wrote down what he could not get himself to say.

"Broken  
Shards lie on the ground.  
One for every last breath  
And for every scream  
That fell to uncaring ears.  
The strings inside tangle  
Before snapping with a resounding  
_Crack_

 _What is wrong with you?_  
You wonder to yourself.  
_Isn't this what you wanted?_  
You pick yourself up,  
Piece  
by piece  
Only to break  
Again."

He paused, his quill suspended in midair. What was wrong with him? He turned to a new page and started writing again.

"You scream and cry  
In silence.  
Where did your voice go?

Numbness fills you,  
an empty void.  
Where did your heart go?

You don't know why,  
This is not you.  
Where did you go?"

His breath temporarily caught in his throat.

"Blood.  
Scarlet and thick.  
Not dirty,  
Not pure.  
Just blood.

You have seen too much  
Of it for a lifetime,  
Too much to still believe  
The lies  
Of the past."

A single wet and salty tear slid down his cheeks and onto the journal. He watched, somewhat mesmerized, as the drop spread across the paper, creating large stains. Soon his vision grew blurry, tears glazing his eyes. More drops stained his notebook.

Sitting on his bed, he remembered. He remembered all the lives that had been lost during the war, many of them not over the age of eighteen. He remembered the Room of Requirement, where he had successfully mended the Vanishing Cabinet after months of work and had later lost his friend — stupid as Crabbe was, he still cared. He remembered the screams echoing across the castle. He remembered the dread that overcame him when he saw Potter's dead body and heard Voldemort's glee. He remembered his mother, her grip tight but comforting, leading him away from everything so he would not go through any more of this. He remembered learning of Voldemort's death and collapsing from overwhelming relief and fatigue. He remembered locking himself in his room for days after Potter told him of Snape's death and secrets. Suddenly, he could not breathe. He felt himself drowning again, and even if his sobs were loud enough to hurt his ears, no one else could hear it.

Tomorrow, he recalled, witches and wizards who had not experienced the battle first hand would be rejoicing about Voldemort's defeat. The same event that had traumatized so many teenagers would be a cause for celebration.

God, it was all so sick. He felt bile rise up his throat, and thought he might throw up. Still sobbing, he ran to the bathroom and puked into the toilet, his head pounding and throat stinging. Once he was done, he sank to the floor and continued to cry. He crushed his knees up to his chest and repeatedly banged his head on his knees. It hurt, but he did not care. The physical pain was the only thing that was normal, the one thing he had control over in his life.

Draco Lucius Malfoy was broken, yet he would forever be nothing but a monster.

* * *

_"Take me to church  
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies  
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife  
Offer me that deathless death  
Good God, let me give you my life"_

_Hozier, "Take Me to Church"_

* * *


End file.
